


Sex and Drugs Not Included

by BagtheBagisnotaBag



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alcohol, Alpha Timeline (Homestuck), Desperation, Gen, Heavy Drinking, Male Solo, Masturbation, Omorashi, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut, Wet Clothing, Wetting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:00:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25951828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BagtheBagisnotaBag/pseuds/BagtheBagisnotaBag
Summary: Three nominations. Three. And at the end of the day, he spent another year empty-handed. Fuck what a mess. His third movie, a fucking masterpiece of sincerely ironic bullshit. The layers of double meaning and over-exaggerated stupidity were a fucking wonder to behold. He swallows a mouthful of beer and grimaces.By the sixth bottle, he is far less sloshed than he wants to be. At the rate he's been downing beer it won't be long until he stains his couch. He could get up to piss. He really should but...  Something stops him. Something low and hot that tightens the front of his pants more than his bladder already has.He takes another sip.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 36
Collections: Drone Season 2020





	Sex and Drugs Not Included

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kessper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kessper/gifts).



> kessper please except my humble gift UwU

It's well past midnight by the time Dave stumbles through the front door of his penthouse suite. He had spent an hour at the after party of the celebration gala for the golden globes before the sound of Meryl Streep’s perfect delight had soured his appletini enough to send him home. 

Three nominations. Three. And at the end of the day, he spent another year empty-handed.

God. He is way too sober for this. He needs a fucking drink. Or twenty. The pain of losing against boring bullshit is too raw and new. If he can drink himself to sleep the loss will hopefully be dulled by morning.

Dave heads straight for his own fridge and groans when he only sees beer. Owen Wilson bought and left behind said beer to Dave's house party the other week. No one drank it. Because Dave stocks fucking good liquor and can fucking mix like nobody's business. 

He rummages around in all his usual places for some proper alcohol, in the closet, under the couch. In the back of the pantry, before giving in and admitting that if he wants to get drunk tonight it's going to have to be with that weak bread water. Eh, fuck it. He grabs the case and heads over to his fancy futon couch.

Fuck what a mess. His third movie, a fucking masterpiece of sincerely ironic bullshit. The layers of double meaning and over-exaggerated stupidity were a fucking wonder to behold. He swallows a mouthful of beer and grimaces. It was his best movie yet and it showed in the reviews and the nominations. 

Maybe it was never as good as he thought? He finishes the first bottle and cracks open a second one. He should watch it again, try and discern what the people were thinking that didn't get him his golden globe.

He fumbles with his beer and the movie case, swaying a little as he fiddles with the TV. Maybe he came home drunker than he thought, he thinks as he accidentally tilts his beer too far trying to get the case open and spills some on the floor. Oops. He chugs the rest and puts the empty bottle on top of the TV to free up his hands so he can get his movie started.

The Main Menue loads up. Except it doesn't. The first thing the DVD always loads is the loading screen for _Finding Nemo_ to make consumers think they put the wrong disk in, before a record scratch sounds and smug-looking Hella Jeff slides into the ocean scene. Motherfucking masterpiece. he stumbles back to his futon to watch. He's seen this a thousand times by now but he still thinks that was a brilliant idea. He cracks open another beer and shifts in his seat. 

By the sixth bottle, he is far less sloshed than he wants to be. Why the hell did he even decide to drink this stuff? The amount of alcohol you get is way out of proportion to the amount of liquid you're forced to consume. He shifts in his seat, more aware by the minute of the tight bladder he's been ignoring.

He really has to pee. The film is still playing out in front of him, though he's stopped paying attention. At the rate he's been downing beer it won't be long until he stains his couch. He could get up to piss. He really should but...

Something stops him. Something low and hot that tightens the front of his pants more than his bladder already has. 

He takes another sip.

He could have anyone. He is Dave Motherfucking Strider yet the thing that gets him hottest under the collar isn't fucking Keira Knightley or Chris Pratt but the thought of sitting there alone in his apartment and pissing himself.

Fuck. Is he really going to do this? He crosses his legs just to feel the way his bladder aches with the pressure and presses a hand between his legs and palms at his hardening dick. 

He knows himself. He's thought about this for years but has never actually held his piss back long enough to break. He always ends up giving in and rushing to the bathroom before the good bit--which in and of itself is fucking satisfying but it's not the same as pissing himself uncontrollably trying to hold back. _Fuck._ He massages his dick through his jeans and finishes off his drink.

Who the fuck is he trying to kid? He wants this.

He's gonna do it. He's gonna piss himself. He's not gonna give in and use the bowl right at the last minute and he has a fucking plan to ensure his success. 

He stands up and has to grab the arm of the couch, drunker than he thought. His bladder gives an urgent throb at the change in elevation and he trembles there for a second before he can get control of himself. Geromy laughs on-screen at something. 

Step one: Shuffle to the bathroom without letting his raging hard-on leak a single drop of golden liquid.

Step two: Lock the door behind him. 

Step three: Check suit for front door keys and realize he left them on the kitchen isle. 

Step four: Shuffle out and get keys without his raging hard-on leaking a single drop is steaming piss. 

Step one again: Back to bathroom. 

Step two: Lock door. 

Step three - the sequle: Climb out tiny bathroom window without letting his raging hard-on spray urine everywhere. 

Step whatever the fuck: Let himself back into his apartment from the front door without the Hollywood paps catching him with a disheveled suit and a raging hard-on.

Mission 

Success

Motherfuckers

Dave Strider has officially locked himself out of his own bathroom. 

His bladder gives a throb of protest at the bout of unexpected exercise. Yup. He has locked himself out of his bathroom. There is no way he'll be able to reach that tiny window from the outside in his current state.

He presses a hand between his legs as his bladder gives another twinge. Maybe this was a bad idea. There's a reason he's never done this before. He's going to have to clean up his own piss from wherever his bladder decides to let go because no way is he subjecting his cleaners to that. 

The swell of panic does nothing to cull the swell of his raging hard-on though. If anything it just makes him more hot and bothered. The hand between his legs is covering all points of need--the need to not piss himself in his lounge, and the need to get some contact on his dick.

OK. Alright. He's cool. He gives his dick one last squeeze and stands up straight. He can do this. He just has to hold it until... 

OK. There is no until. There is no conclusion to this except him getting his slacks soaked but that's alright.

He shuffles over to the couch and lowers himself into it. It's still showing his movie but he is well past having the ability to process anything beyond his aching bladder and the equally aching member connected to it.

It's then that he spots the half-empty bottle of vodka hiding behind the TV.

By the time the movie is coming to a close Dave has made it just shy of blackout drunk. He is no longer aware that today (yesterday now) is the day he failed to win a Golden Globe. He is no longer aware of much. Which would be mission success, except that he also has forgotten all about mission piss his pants.

The credits start playing which prompts Dave to take his eyes away from the tits-on-legs that is Hella Jeff's Mom and pay attention to the brick that has become of his bladder. _Fuck_ does he need to piss. 

He has to grab himself and the couch to prevent a disaster trying to get up. God knows his bladder can't handle a fall right now. Being upright is in no way an improvement to his previous state and he has to enlist the help of the wall to make it to the hallway. 

He tries the bathroom handle. It's locked.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. This is bad. Who is in his apartment? He must have someone over. He spares a hand to grip himself and knocks on the door. "Hey, are you done yet? I gotta piss like nobody's business." He knocks again to punctuate his point and crosses one leg over the other to ride out a wave of desperation. He does not want to piss his slacks in front of whoever he bought home.

He groans and leans against the door. He's not going to be able to hold it. Fuck. It's too hard. He needs to go so bad. His hand is gripping his crotch, kneading. He's hard and he knows why and fuck he can't let this person know what a sick fuck he is. He just wants to use the fucking toilet "Would you fucking hurry up. Fuck. I'm gonna piss myself."

He presses his forehead against the door, both hands between his legs now as he rides out a wave of intense need. He feels a trickle of piss leek out and his veins turn ice cold. "No no no no." He whispers "Fuck. I'm pissing myself." 

It’s so fucking hot though. He manages to clench whatever muscles are needed to stop the trickle of piss. There is a dark warm wet spot to one side of his pants, right where his hands are putting pressure on his dick and man does it get his horn on like nothing has before.

He does not want to piss himself except in all the ways he does.

His hands are all that's holding him back from busting out all down both legs but fuck are they not helping with the arousal problem. 

The next leak is stronger and leaves a dark stain down one leg of his designer slacks. 

Fuck.

No.

He bends at the waist, putting pressure on his crotch as the flow slows. It’s in his socks now. In his pimpin leather shoes. He can still feel it coming out, slow as he can make it. He is trembling and clenching down but it just keeps coming.

He's not even thinking about making it to the toilet anymore. He is too overwhelmed by sensation, trying to tamp down in the intense shame and lust coursing through him by stopping the flow of urine. 

He presses down harder and manages to stem the flow but it doesn’t help. It just makes the need worse, his bladder spasming and a heavy spurt coming out and staining a line down both legs and filling his socks.

He would do anything to piss freely right now, the need consuming everything, but shame keeps his muscles tight and his hands pressed to his crotch. His dick gives another spurt and he moans and forces it to stop--his whole body shaking with it. 

His hands are soaked. He breathes heavy and reaches in to adjust himself, pointing his dick up into the waistband of his slacks on automatic to hide his otherwise obvious boner.

He’s leaning against forehead the door at this point, still shaking, hands and leg soaked but his bladder has calmed back to a constant driving need rather than an unavoidable force of nature. That is until he stands up straight, his drunk self telling him to act unaffected and not hard as fuck and covered in piss.

He just starts pissing again, his overworked bladder muscles giving out on him. 

He pisses up into his shirt and just stands there shaking and swaying for a second, his shirt and pants soaking themselves, he presses a hand to his dick, dizzy with the feeling but he can't stop pissing, he folds in half, putting pressure on his cock as it throbs and pisses.

He's crossed his legs and bent over himself in the hallway as piss drips on the floor around him.

His head is spinning. He’s weak and gasping and hard as fuck. Consumed by the tender ache in his bladder, it takes him a second to realize he has stopped pissing—finally empty.

Dripping with it.

He manages to get his back to the door and slides down to the floor where he takes his sopping dick in hand and starts pumping. The pleasure building is only slightly different from the ache of his full bladder and his drunk body tenses up again. He moans and clenched down on the phantom sensation of need-to-pee even as his hand moves faster and his dick strains up. 

Fuck. He’s going to piss himself again. His hand keeps flying over his dick even as his bladder clenches weakly and he feels the building wave of it take over him. 

“Shit. Shit. Aughhhh.” His dick spasms and he shoots cum up his chest, his whole body trembling--shuddering with his head pressed back against the bathroom door. 

That was the fastest orgasm of his adult life.

By the time he’s done shuddering there's white mixing with all the piss on the floor in front of him. He feels bone-tired, shaking with exertion, blood singing hot and fast.

In a few minutes, his head will clear and he will blanch at the mess all over the floor and over his fucking expensive suit. But for now, he just breathes, eyes closed, and cock going soft in his hand.

**Author's Note:**

> pee you pants. that is an order


End file.
